


Come What May

by marleymars



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Crossover, Dragon Age - Freeform, Gift Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 19:07:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2822882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marleymars/pseuds/marleymars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brush with death leaves Armin feeling that he needs to prove himself, more than usual. Irwin gently encourages him to take a break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come What May

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alienchrist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienchrist/gifts).



> I started writing this like a month before Inquisition came out. It’s a horribly belated birthday fic for alienchrist, or an early Christmas present depending on how you look at it. 
> 
> Happy birthday again my friend, I hope this offering is satisfactory uwu forgive me for my lateness. 
> 
> ps. some lore stuff won't make sense if you're not into Dragon Age, fair warning.

He found the Inquisitor in the gardens; the young mage sat cross-legged underneath a tree with sheaves of paper spread out in a semicircle around him. Shadows dappled his hunched shoulders, and long, silky locks of sunlight hair fell across his face, shielding his eyes from Irwin’s gaze. All the same, Irwin could see that the Inquisitor was entirely focused on—entirely _absorbed_ in—the maps and other documents scattered across the grasses around him.

Irwin made it within five feet of the Inquisitor without being detected, which wasn’t so unusual when Armin was preoccupied. Not unusual, but alarming for someone of his…uniquely exposed status. The warrior watched the Herald purse his lips as he shuffled parchments, muttering wearily underneath his breath. He was wearing light clothing—not his usual robes, nor any armor, which of course he shouldn’t have been. He also shouldn’t have taken on so much work in his condition, though Irwin had known Armin would have ensconced himself in busy work as soon as he found the mage had fled his quarters—again.

“Making progress?” Irwin asked when several minutes had passed and Armin still seemed unaware of his presence. He tried not to smile when the Inquisitor jumped, head jerking up as an indignant flush crept into his cheeks, ink from his quill splattering across one of his letters.

“I’m trying to,” Armin sighed, the glare he’d tried to summon falling away; he reached up to rub at his right temple as Irwin knelt before him.

“It must be difficult to concentrate when one hasn’t slept a full night in over a week, or eaten a full meal,” the adviser said, thumbing his chin as he skimmed over a map spread over Armin’s knees. The paper was marked heavily in red ink, the notations indecipherable, though Irwin thought he recognized the location of several of the Inquisition’s camps. “You know, you have advisers for a reason. You _are_ allowed to delegate.”

“I know that,” the Inquisitor said as he directed a scowl down at the papers. “But I get so much correspondence, and I have to at least _try_ to understand our war strategies, and where our supplies and allies are coming from, and _besides_ —,”

“I understand all that,” Irwin interjected gently as he knelt before the mage, “but you are permitted to take a break every so often. Especially under present circumstances.” The mage’s scowl deepened, this time leveled toward his adviser.

“Don’t patronize me, Irwin,” he huffed, “I need to be involved. I mean, otherwise what am I but a figurehead?”

Irwin sighed through his nose, and reached out, placing a hand on Armin’s shoulder. He had thought it must be something like that. As long as Irwin had known him, Armin had detested feeling useless, or as though he was a burden on others. “Nobody would blame you for taking care of yourself. Particularly while you’re…convalescing.”

The scowl fell away, as did Armin’s gaze. He focused instead on the grass beneath him, reaching down to pluck at the green blades. When they had found this keep, the garden had been barren, the grasses thin and long dead, the earth dry. Armin had taken particular pleasure in revitalizing the space, bringing in herbs and other reagents to fuel his interests in alchemy, not to mention more decorative flora, such as the tree he rested under.

“It’s not as though I’m doing anything particularly taxing,” he murmured, “I just…I couldn’t stand another moment shuttered up in that _room_.”

“Your room?” Irwin asked, finding his hand rising to smooth away the frown etched into the Inquisitor’s smooth skin.

“It still doesn’t feel that way, you know,” Armin said softly, “None of this feels like it’s mine. It all feels…” His hand came up to close over Irwin’s, keeping it where it was, resting against his jaw. “I want it to be over,” he whispered. “I want to go home.”

“I know you do,” Irwin said. “And that’s why you’re loath to stop working, even for a moment, isn’t it?”

Armin looked up again, meeting the warrior’s steady gaze, a little smile fighting to take the place of his frown. “I forget sometimes how well you know me,” he said.

“Perhaps too well?” Irwin asked with a little crook of his brow.

“Never,” Armin said. Irwin found his hand cupping the side of the younger man’s head more firmly, the hair soft under his palm. He worried about the dark circles around Armin’s eyes; they were not as dark as they had been, but there was a lingering strain there that refused to fade away. At least that strain was no longer underwritten with pain.

“You know I’m only trying to take care of you, right?” Irwin asked, and Armin nodded, making a soft noise of assent as the warrior found himself leaning in closer. He felt the barest flutter of eyelashes, the soft touch of Armin’s lips against his own and then somebody was clearing their throat and he rocked back on his heels.

“Levi,” Armin said, flushing pink in the face of Levi’s scowl.

“You’re needed…Inquisitor,” the dark haired rogue said with a long-suffering sigh. Armin immediately began grabbing for his scattered papers, only stopping when Irwin placed a hand on his wrist.

“The Inquisitor and I were just going to get something to eat,” he said, and Armin blinked up at him in confusion for a moment before realizing that Irwin was lying for him.

“Irwin, it’s alright,” he said, giving the warrior a significant look, “I can eat later.” Irwin met his gaze, steady and unwavering, but Armin’s was just the same and he found himself giving in.

“I’ll bring you something then,” the older man said.

“And I promise I’ll try to eat it,” Armin said with a smile that was too tired, too forced by half. And Irwin could only help him collect his papers and watch him walk off with Levi, left feeling as if he wasn’t doing enough. He’d joined this Inquisition only for Armin, to protect him and provide any assistance, any guidance and support he could possibly need. Exhaustion wasn’t an enemy he could fend off though, and even at his best he couldn’t always keep Armin from getting hurt. He’d learned that lesson well enough time and time again, but that didn’t mean he would stop trying.

Overhead a bird tittered, and Irwin shook himself. Armin would burn himself out sooner or later if he kept on the way he was, and then he would be of no use to anybody, much less himself. Irwin would just have to be there to make sure that didn’t happen.

X

Irwin sensed the ambush in scarcely the space of a breath before it fell upon them. He had his sword out in just as much time, and that was all that stopped him taking a mace full to the side of his skull.

 

The red templars attacked them with all the ferocity and mindlessness of blighted dogs, but even a sick animal might have faltered where these men did not. Whatever poison they subjected themselves to did its work, fueling their righteous rage into a blood-soaked haze of violence. Even he was hard pressed to fend them off, and it didn't help that he couldn't keep from listening for the sounds of spellcasting. He'd been near the back of the Inquisitor's entourage when they'd stopped to rest under a noon sun. In the flurry of fighting, the clang of steel on steel and cries of pain, he could just make out the sizzling boom and flashes toward the front of the caravan—far, too far for his liking.

 

Just has quickly as it had started, the battle was over. Bodies littered the earth around the horses and wagons. They were just supposed to be escorting supplies in hopes of currying favor with some powerful merchants. Irwin hadn't even been meant to come along, but Armin had wanted to visit some grand library with him, and so—

 

There were cries from the front of the caravan. Irwin had leaned forward on his sword for just a moment to catch his breath, but then he found himself running, the point of his weapon dragging in the dry dirt. Thought the fight had been short, his limbs and lungs burned now with what was unmistakably fear, and he hoped as he ran that it was unfounded.

 

And then he found that it was not. A tight circle had formed around the Inquisitor, and Irwin could hear the strangled noises Armin made even before he saw him. There was a flickering blue light, and when he managed to shove his way through the knot of people he found Historia on her knees, Mikasa propping Armin up as the mage girl pressed her hands around the spot where an arrow protruded.

 

"We need to pull the arrow out," Mikasa was saying.

 

"I know!" Historia cried, "I just want to numb it, but my magic—it's not working!" The normally taciturn girl seemed near terror, but then Irwin was kneeling beside her and placing a hand over hers.

 

"Stop," he said, his voice far steadier and calmer than he would have given himself credit for.

 

"But--,"

 

"D-do as he says," Armin rasped, and then Irwin looked at him, something he'd been pointedly trying not to do. The Inquisitor was sheet-pale, eyes wide and glistening with pain but oddly focused. He reached up to grasp Irwin's gauntleted wrist, and the warrior risked a glance at the arrow. Close, so close, near enough to where Armin's heart was for him to know that had been the archer's true goal.

 

"Armin," Irwin said, mouth gone dry, voice rough.

 

"Magebane," he whispered back, and that was when the real fear kicked in. Magebane was bad enough when slipped into tea, or applied to a blade—it stopped the mage from spellcasting, numbed their connection to the Fade. Some mages even had trouble casting spells just being around it, and now it was in his blood, embedded in him, and there was no way to heal him.

 

"We'll have to push the arrow through," Irwin found himself saying. Armin's mouth flattened into a grim, grey line, and Irwin saw Mikasa shifting behind him, readying to hold him still. A leather strap came from somewhere, and Armin shakily placed it between his teeth, then grabbed onto Historia's offered hands with whatever strength he had.

 

He made a noise like a wounded animal when Irwin cut the shaft just below the fletching. There wouldn't have been thick enough plugs in the world to stuff Irwin's ears with, to block out the way Armin screamed when he pushed the arrow through. The warrior did so as quickly as he could, one hard thrust and then the arrowhead was sticking out through his back in the hole Mikasa had cut in his robes.

It was barbed, as he’d suspected, coated in gore. Dark blood pulsed from the wound, and then Mikasa was applying pressure with her bare hands. Historia had bandages ready, and Armin’s robes were fully cut away as poultices and potions were applied. Armin’s skin remained grey, unhealthy, and he clutched Irwin’s hand and told him he was tired. He hadn’t lost much blood, so Irwin knew his exhaustion was due to the aftermath of pain, and the poison coursing through him.

“Will he be alright?” he asked Historia. Their hands were bloody, too bloody, and the girl looked ragged.

“Magebane isn’t usually deadly, but…,” she trailed off. The circumstances—the proximity of the arrowhead to his heart had made the poison spread quickly, and without healing many soldiers often fell victim to infection from such wounds, even dea—

                “He’s had worse,” Irwin said, more to himself than to her, or Mikasa, who sat in the back of the wagon they’d loaded Armin into, holding his hand.

“It’s good Eren’s not here,” Armin said, expression hazy with agony. “He’d have gone berserk.”

“He’ll go berserk as soon as we get back,” Mikasa said, offering him a small, encouraging smile. He lost consciousness not long after, and drifted in and out as they hastily made their way back to the keep. His temperature spiked, and he couldn’t keep any food down—the trek took only a day and a half, but with Armin’s injury it felt infinitely longer. Irwin heard mutterings amongst the soldiers as they marched, words he tried to ignore until he couldn’t anymore, positing that in Armin’s feverish dreaming if he came across a demon would he be capable of fighting it off? A dark look from him was all it took to silence them, at least in his presence. He’s had worse, he told himself again and again. Armin was the strongest mage he’d ever encountered, and he would not be felled by something simple as a poison-dipped arrow.

When they finally made it back Eren did go berserk, ranting at first, then stalking back and forth across Armin’s room while the Inquisitor was made to drink potions and a stronger poultice was applied to his wound. The reaver clenched and unclenched his fists as he vowed a slow and painful end to any red templars—and anyone else who dared cross the Inquisition—they came across from then on.

“Mikasa killed the archer that shot me,” Armin said to him, his voice hoarse, eyes glassy. Irwin stood nearby, silently watching—Eren’s temper burned ferociously, but quickly. Concern for Armin won out sooner rather than later, and he acquiesced to the healer’s directive that the Inquisitor was not to be allowed out of bed until he was better.

At first Armin didn’t argue. Or rather, he couldn’t—he was given a sleeping draught to help his body rest, to combat the fever that clung to him, and he spent most of a week in bed. For a time he didn’t seem to mind this, spending most of his time sleeping, but after the fifth day his fever broke and he was insisting he was fine to move. “It’s only my shoulder,” he said, “It’s not as though I can’t walk.” Mikasa and Eren’s hovering at least kept him in his rooms for a day or two longer. He had few visitors aside from them and Irwin that weren’t simply there to demand something from him.

“Irwin, please,” Armin had begged on the seventh day. He was still weak, the wound still stubbornly weeping but making progress. The dose of magebane must have been particularly concentrated, because he still tired quickly, and he complained that his mana was infuriatingly difficult to control, like trying to get a firm grip on an eel. “I need to get out of this room. Take me for a walk?” Irwin agreed, offering his arm, which the mage took hold of eagerly as he lurched out of bed.

Irwin thought the fresh air and sunlight would do him good, but Armin was just happy to be allowed to move. He’d read every book Eren had brought him from the library, Levi was threatening him with piles of paperwork, and Historia and every other mage in the keep had been by to poke and prod at his wound. Armin had faced everything so calmly, even when he’d been in agony and too weak to move, but Irwin knew how much he hated attention and coddling.

The pair traversed the keep, their progress slow. Armin would reach up every so often to touch his shoulder, though he didn’t seem to be doing so consciously. Soldiers and servants stopped to bow and salute, and Armin only nodded sagely at them. Only Irwin seemed aware of his discomfort, though to be honest, Armin was getting better at hiding how much he disliked being in charge of so many people.

They reached the stables, and Armin went to the stall where his black mare was kept. The animal tossed her head, and thrust her nose into his palm with an anxious whinny. “I know, I haven’t been to see you in so long,” he murmured consolingly to her. The stable-boys tended to her care, but Armin connected more readily with animals, and they with him. He could often be found tending to his mare, or observing a litter of barn kittens, or up in the rookery when he was trying to escape his responsibilities for an hour or two.

“Perhaps in a few days we can go riding,” Irwin suggested. Armin smiled at the thought—no doubt he wouldn’t be able to leave the keep without a full honor guard, but the chance for an outing was pleasing enough.

“After today, I’m getting back to work,” he announced abruptly. Before Irwin could protest—which he’d certainly been about to do—Armin quickly added, “Not to go on missions or anything. Just attending meetings and getting all my paperwork done. I can’t stay in bed forever, Irwin.”

“Of course,” the warrior agreed. “But you’ll take it easy, yes?”

“Yes,” Armin said as he stroked the mare’s nose, eyes closed as he leaned his head against her neck. Already, he looked so weary. He’d grown gaunt in the last week or so as his appetite had suffered, even with his friends anxiously lingering to ensure he took care of himself. The thin broths and mild foods he’d had to eat until his fever had broken hadn’t helped either. “I promise, I won’t overdo it.” He stepped back from his mare, pressing fingers to his forehead in a way that made Irwin’s chest tighten with worry.

“Why don’t we sit a moment?” Irwin proposed, guiding him over to a bench. Armin allowed himself to be sat down, shutting his eyes and leaning back against the side of the tack room.

“It’s just a dizzy spell,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose with a grimace. “Maker, I can’t wait for this poison to work its way out of me. This week has felt like an eternity.”

“You had us all worried,” Irwin said, his hand finding its way over to Armin’s knee. “You had me worried.”

Armin dropped his hand and offered Irwin an apologetic smile, “I’ll try to avoid any wayward arrows from now on.” When Irwin only pursed his lips, Armin placed a hand over the one that still rested on his knee. “I told Eren and Mikasa as much—there really isn’t anything to be done for it. I’m a target now. A big one. There have always been plenty of people who would see me dead, simply by virtue of my being a mage.” His grip tightened slightly, and he reached up to place his other hand on Irwin’s jaw, “At least I know I’m in good hands.”

“There do seem to be plenty of people willing to lay down their lives for you,” Irwin assented.

“And you had better not be one of them,” Armin said sternly. The warrior only made a soft, reassuring noise as he leaned down and nuzzled Armin’s golden hair. “I’m serious. If you die I’ll find you in the Fade and throttle you.”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” Irwin agreed solemnly as he sat back, giving his best salute.

“Insufferable,” Armin muttered. “Take me back to my room then, soldier.” Irwin pulled him to his feet, and they started back across the courtyard toward the main hall. Eren appeared as if from nowhere as they climbed the grand staircase to chastise Armin for straining himself, and the mage took his overbearing concern in stride.

“I’ll lock you in a trunk if I have to,” Eren told him, and Armin laughed, linking arms with his friend. Irwin fell back as they dropped into hushed conversation. He watched as Armin reached up to touch his shoulder again, and felt a little twinge of relief that the wound hadn’t been any more…severe than it was. The fate of the world hinged on Armin’s life, and it was a heavier burden than he could imagine. But more than that, Irwin knew he personally wouldn’t be able to bear it if something happened to Armin.

For now, though, he was alive. They both were, and he would take what comfort he could from that.

X

Armin blinked rapidly and shook his head, sitting up straight as he tried to refocus his gaze on the parchment before him. For the past half-hour, the words inscribed across the paper had become increasingly difficult to decipher. His eyelids had been no help either, growing heavier and heavier with each breath. _Just a few more,_ he thought. The bundle of correspondence had been at least two inches thick, the letters unfolded and read beforehand by Levi and Hanji, and even Irwin. Some replies had already been written out as well, only requiring his signature, but he disdained shunting his work off onto others when he was perfectly capable of doing it himself. It was just writing letters, after all. Or so one would think.

Just as the thought entered his mind, his shoulder throbbed, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The wound was mostly scabbed over, but still tender. Even if it was in his left shoulder—well, just below his shoulder, more relative to his chest—the pain made any movement difficult. And he’d been sitting at this desk since noontime, carefully reading each letter and consulting with his advisers before composing every thoughtful reply. Earlier, Levi had been there, and he would proofread each response and scoff over the wording, and several times he’d made Armin rewrite a letter entirely until it was satisfactory. Honestly, Armin had never known letter-writing could be so demanding a task.

Stifling a yawn, he re-dipped his quill into the inkwell and squinted hard at the stubbornly unfocused scrawl before him. He forced his eyes to trace the words he’d written already, trying to determine if they made any sense, but their meaning slipped from his mind as soon as he reached the end of each sentence. A black dot appeared suddenly right in the center of the line he was attempting to read, and he realized he’d let the quill hover over the parchment for a bit longer than he should.

A knock on the doorframe startled him, and he sat up straight to see Eren standing just inside his office. “You’re still awake?” his friend asked with the little frown he wore when he was worried.

“I’m almost done here,” Armin blurted, knowing he’d been found out.

Eren raised an eyebrow, and folded his arms over his chest as he prepared his special brand of dressing-down, “You should—,”

“Be resting,” Armin supplied for him, offering a wan smile. “I know. I promise. Just this one last letter, and I’ll go to bed.” Eren looked unconvinced, and Armin sighed. “I mean it, Eren. I’m exhausted. But I can’t leave things unfinished—you know that.”

Eren’s mouth crooked to the side, and Armin could sense that he was about to cave, “If I come back in an hour and you’re still working, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and carry you to your room.”

“Agreed,” Armin said, his smile this time amused. Eren would do it, too, so he knew he had better be finished by then, unless he wanted to be touted about like a recalcitrant child. As the Inquisitor, he thought that might be a tad unseemly.

Instead of departing right away, Eren came around the desk and placed a hand on Armin’s shoulder, the uninjured one. He was still making a bit of a face, as though he couldn’t decide exactly what he wanted to say. Finally, he settled on, “I’m glad you’re feeling better, though. For a few days I thought…Look, just don’t overtax yourself, alright?”

“I won’t if you won’t,” Armin said. He knew he wasn’t the only one pulling late nights, and running himself ragged, albeit without serious injury on most everyone else’s part.

Satisfied that Armin was being sufficiently amenable, Eren bade him goodnight—for now—and left. His visit had shaken Armin awake somewhat, and for at least a few minutes he was able to write without feeling his eyelids drooping. When next he looked up at the candle on his desk, he saw that it was nearly melted to the base. _It should burn out before Eren’s imposed bed-time,_ Armin thought, deciding that that was when he’d admit defeat and retire for the night.

He was almost done in any case, he happily noted as he dipped the quill again, and tapped it thoughtfully against a blotchy piece of scrap paper. All that was left were a few closing sentiments, and his signature—which was inordinately lengthy, now that he was Inquisitor. He missed the days when he could just sign “Armin” and be done with it, without all this “His Eminence the Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, etc., etc.,” nonsense. Not to mention the fancy seal on the signet ring that had been specially made for him, with that intimidating eyeball struck through with a sword. He wondered if seeing that image pressed into the red glob of wax on his letters struck fear into the hearts of his correspondents. If he wasn’t the Inquisitor, he was sure he wouldn’t be happy to receive such a letter.

Blearily, he felt his eyelids flutter, and the words swam across the parchment in dizzying eddies. _Stop thinking up drivel_ , he self-chastised as he dragged a hand down his face. Perhaps if he just shut his eyes for a moment, he could clear his head. Just a few seconds, just to rest them so the light wouldn’t burn quite as much and those damned busy words would stay still. Just a few seconds, and then he could finish…

With a start, he realized his eyes were already shut, his head feeling heavy as he groaned and threw an arm across his face to block out the light that fell against it. _I fell asleep_ , he thought woefully, his head too muzzy to get much farther than that—until he realized he wasn’t slumped over at his desk. Rather, he was lying on something flat and soft, with the plush comforter from his bed pulled up around his neck. Sweet Andraste, Eren really had come back and carried him to bed. He felt his face heat with embarrassment at the thought, the indignity of it bringing him more fully awake. How he hoped nobody had seen them—Eren wasn’t exactly known for discretion, but surely he knew how much Armin would hate for the people he was supposed to be in charge of to see him like that.

“If you’re awake,” a deep, familiar voice echoed across the chamber, “why don’t you come join me?” Again, Armin started, propping himself halfway up and blinking irritably at the bright sunlight glowing through the windows—light that was most certainly not the pinkish light of sunrise, which was when he was usually woke.

“How late is it?” he asked with a fleeting sense of panic, flinging the heavy blanket off and realizing he’d been stripped down to his shirtsleeves and smallclothes. “Did you undress me?” he added, looking up at where the speaker—Irwin, of course—sat, drinking tea at the small table where Armin received his meals when he didn’t feel like eating in the mess, a book open on his lap.

“It’s after noon,” Irwin supplied calmly as Armin sputtered, indignant, “And yes, I did. I’m also the one who found you unconscious in your office with ink smeared all over your face from the letter you were writing—yes, the letter was ruined, and I also washed your face for you. You’re an awfully deep sleeper, love. Good thing nobody was around to see me lugging you through the castle.” Armin felt any number of emotions dash across his face—annoyance, horror, indignation again.

“Why did you let me sleep so late?” he finally asked after settling on feeling worried that Levi would kick the door in any second now and drag him off to some meeting.

“I let you sleep as long as you needed to,” Irwin answered simply. “Now, come eat something. I know you’re hungry.” As if it were in collusion with the warrior, Armin’s stomach gave an embarrassingly loud grumble, and he heaved a sigh. If he was already this late in getting his day started, then an extra few minutes couldn’t possibly make a difference.

“I’m going to guess that you also kept your fellow advisors at bay while I slept,” he said as he approached the table. There was a mostly full kettle of tea, and a covered tray under which his breakfast presumably lay. He could sense the enchantments on both conveyances, magic to keep the food and drink warm for him, something usually owned by only the very wealthy. Which he guessed he was one of, now. He remembered having to learn such enchantments, helping the tranquil make various trinkets that they could sell to earn money for the Circle. Ostensibly, the chantry was supposed to supply them with everything they needed, but sometimes the money simply didn’t make it to where it was supposed to go.

“I did,” Irwin said in answer to his question, “I told them under pain of death, no one was to disturb you unless the keep was on fire.”

“Knowing Levi, I’m surprised he hasn’t taken a torch to the place,” Armin snorted as he sat down and leaned forward to remove the cover from his breakfast. Irwin huffed an appreciative laugh, and took another sip of tea. “Apple tarts, eggs, ham—are you trying to fatten me up?” Armin asked, even as his mouth watered. He was ferociously hungry to the point of nausea, and couldn’t sufficiently remember why his appetite had been so lacking lately, near-death experiences be damned.

“You caught me,” Irwin said dryly as he marked his spot in his book and placed it on the table. “You do seem in dire need of a proper meal, in all seriousness.” Armin would have answered him in just as wry a tone, but he was too busy trying to stuff an entire tart in his mouth, so he simply grunted. “Well, you don’t need to eat so quickly, either,” Irwin added as he poured Armin a cup of tea to help him wash down his bear-sized bite.

Armin accepted the cup gratefully, and after draining nearly all of its contents argued, “I’ve got work to do, Irwin. More so now I’m sure, since I slept in so late. Who knows what sorts of disasters have befallen the world while I’ve been ‘unconscious,’ as you put it.”

“I think the world can wait a bit longer,” Irwin said as Armin attempted to inhale the entire plate of eggs in one go.

“I’ve already wasted enough time in the past few weeks—,”

“You mean the time where you lingered on death’s door due to a near-fatal injury?” Irwin interjected with a stolid expression.

“Yes. Exactly so. I’ve far too much to oversee to just dally about over breakfast, but I promise I won’t—,”

“Overdo it?” Irwin asked.

“ _Yes_. Maker, would you stop interrupting me?” Armin said, though truthfully he wasn’t terribly vexed.

“My apologies,” Irwin said sincerely, then, “but you’ve been promising nearly every day you won’t overdo it, and then I catch you asleep at your desk, or going without food for so long that you make yourself ill. Forgive me if I am mistaken, but that seems something like overdoing it to me.”

Armin’s jaw worked, his cup of tea halfway to his mouth. Several arguments flipped through his mind, but he dismissed each one as absurd. “Well, what else do you expect me to do? The world isn’t going to politely stop tearing itself apart until I’m fully recovered,” he finally managed.

“I’m not saying you have to completely stop. Just allow us to help you, and rest when you need to. There’s no reason to work yourself into exhaustion, and you’re not helping anybody by taking on all this extra stress. What happens when you wear yourself down completely, to the point where you make yourself sick? How will you accomplish anything then?”

“I…,” Armin started, then set his cup down and placed his face into his hands with a sigh. “I don’t _know_ , Irwin. I don’t know what I’m _doing_. I’m just an escaped Circle mage. The most work I ever did before this rebellion was research for my studies, and then once the circles rebelled it was just running, running, running, trying not to get killed. I’m not a diplomat, or a politician, or even a _soldier_.”

He felt a hand on his arm, and some of the tension drained out of him, tension he hadn’t even realized was there. “I know,” Irwin said. “That’s part of why I’m so worried—why your friends are worried. You’re pushing yourself too hard, trying to prove that you can do these things you’ve never done and never expected to do. And your injury just made it all worse, didn’t it?”

Armin felt himself nodding into his hands, and to his dismay felt tears pricking behind his tightly shut eyelids. “It was carelessness,” he said, “I wasn’t—I didn’t even _see_ that archer. I should have paid more attention, and now who knows how many people have died, people I could have saved—,”

“Don’t do that to yourself,” Irwin said sternly, his grip tightening ever-so-slightly, “You cannot prevent every death, and what is happening is not your fault. I know you feel responsible, but that responsibility was thrust upon you without warning or explanation.”

“I know,” Armin said miserably, his appetite vanished and the food in his stomach settling like rocks. “But it’s just _so much_ , and I never feel like I’m doing enough, no matter how many troops I send out, or letters I write, or what we accomplish.”

“It’s war, Armin. War is ugly and senseless, and no matter what you do people are going to get hurt. You can only do what you can, and save who you can, and remember that there are people who are loyal to you who feel exactly the same as you do.” Armin tried to suppress a shudder, and failed. Then Irwin’s hand disappeared, and a moment later he felt the man beside him, kneeling by his chair as his hands pulled Armin against his chest. Something constricted behind Armin’s ribs, and he turned his face into the linen of Irwin’s shirt. The warrior was without armor today, which was odd—he normally wore his armor constantly these days, in case something went awry and he needed to be prepared.

Armin didn’t give in to his warring emotions, but neither did he stuff them down someplace where they could be ignored. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Irwin’s neck, and breathed in the scent of him, allowing the calmness of the moment to wash into him. Irwin rarely panicked, but he acknowledged his fears, his doubts, and didn’t let them get the better of him. _I can do the same_ , Armin thought. He could remain calm and focused, he could recognize his own shortcomings without letting that knowledge hinder him, and he could cope with the weight of the scar on his hand. It was quiet today, no green light, just a plain, shining scar on his palm.

With a deep, steadying breath, he sat up, staring down at the scar. Irwin took hold of his wrist and brought the hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the anchor before enclosing the hand in both of his. “Today you will not leave this room,” he said—not a command, just a statement of fact. Armin found he didn’t have the will to argue, though a few thoughts arose.

“Very well, ser,” he murmured. “And what, pray tell, shall we do with our time?”

“You—,” Irwin said, kissing the knuckles of Armin’s imprisoned hand, “You will do nothing.”

“That sounds terribly boring,” Armin prompted teasingly.

“Then you underestimate me, my love,” Irwin said, moving his mouth from hand to wrist, nipping slightly at the soft skin on the underside of the younger man’s arm. Armin sucked in a breath, all thoughts of teasing gone as Irwin pressed a line of soft kisses up the inside of his arm, pushing his sleeve back as far as it would go.

“You mean to spoil me, then,” Armin said, trying to sound playfully long-suffering, but the breathless quality of his voice spoiled the attempt.

“It’s been quite a long time since I’ve had the pleasure,” Irwin said, his mouth moving from forearm to shoulder smoothly. Armin reached up with his free hand to scratch his fingers through the short hair at the back of Irwin’s head, feeling his blood pumping again, though for different reasons.

“Poor you,” Armin said, finding it somewhat difficult to speak with his adviser’s tongue tracing his collarbone, “So deprived.” He tugged his hand free from Irwin’s grasp, and put both arms around him again, keeping him close. They hadn’t been together like this since before they’d been ambushed, the night before in fact. The realization made him feel a little deprived himself—he’d been so focused on getting back on his feet he’d let most everything else fall by the wayside.

Feeling a sudden swell of guilt, he reluctantly pushed Irwin back, acutely feeling the loss of his warmth. “What?” the warrior asked softly, slowly tracing Armin’s jawline with a calloused finger.

“I’m sorry that I caused you worry,” he said, and before Irwin could brush the apology off, he added, “Next time just bop me over the head and lock me in my chambers.”

“Ah,” Irwin said, “But how could I be certain you wouldn’t just climb out the window when you awoke?”

“Is that not a risk you’re willing to take?” Rather than answer him directly, Irwin moved his hand from Armin’s face to his neck, and leaned in to kiss him. Armin sighed into him, opening his mouth with little preamble for Irwin’s exploration. He hoped he tasted of tea rather than the breakfast he’d just gobbled down like a starving mabari, but Irwin didn’t have any complaints either way. He held the Inquisitor close, his thumb massaging Armin’s neck, the other hand creeping not-so surreptitiously up his thigh. In turn, Armin slipped hands beneath the loose collar of Irwin’s tunic, warming his hands against the warrior’s bare flesh.

Too soon, Irwin was pulling back. His mouth had worked slowly, his tongue twining and sliding alongside Armin’s, coaxing and cajoling rather than heated. Armin made a noise of protest, trying to follow, but Irwin rose from his knees, towering over Armin’s seat. “Come,” he said, holding out his hand for Armin to take. The Inquisitor did so gladly, letting himself be pulled up to his feet and following as Irwin guided him across the room. When they passed the bed he bit the inside of his mouth in puzzlement as he regarded the back of Irwin’s head.

“I’ll wager you won’t say no to a hot bath?” Irwin said, as if sensing Armin’s confusion. He was correct, of course. Armin hadn’t given himself any time for much more than a quick wash in front of a basin of late, and he rather acutely felt the aches he’d been ignoring for the past weeks. A long soak in the bath sounded like the utmost of luxuries, better even than breakfast or whatever else Irwin might have planned for him.

The Inquisitor’s bathroom was the one perk of his position that Armin could find no fault with. It was, perhaps, unnecessarily spacious, but it was beautiful as well. The floors were marble and impeccably polished, the walls a fine mahogany, built to hold warmth. There was a simple washbasin against the far wall, though perhaps simple was too inexact a term. It was porcelain, an obscene luxury for something as simple as a bowl meant for washing. The pedestal upon which it sat was carved, gilt-inlaid wood, but none of that was comparable to the bath itself.

It was built into the floor, made of the same black and white marble, the rim slightly rougher stone to prevent slipping. It was deep enough to submerge Armin up to his shoulders if he sat on the built in bench, or up to his waist if he stood. A plug and drain in the bottom let the bathwater siphon away, but Armin’s favorite feature was the pump. Whoever had built this keep in ages past had chosen a prime location—the castle was built atop a system of waterways, and most importantly, a hot spring. The pump was fed by this spring, and it might have been exhausting to operate it long enough to fill the tub if Armin weren’t a mage.

“Show off,” Irwin said as the Inquisitor flicked his wrist and the pump handle began to rise and fall of its own volition. Another motion saw the plug securing itself in the drain, keeping the water in the confines of the tub as it began to pour forth from the curved spout.

“Would you rather pump it yourself?” Armin asked, pleased that his magic was no longer coming in fits and starts the way it had been. He couldn’t manage sustained or powerful spells yet as the effects of the poison still lingered, but they were mild compared to what they were before.

“I did say you would do nothing today,” Irwin reminded the younger man as he came to stand behind him, large hands resting gently on Armin’s shoulders. His touch was so light that it caused Armin’s wound no pain. He did wince when he raised his own hand to prod at the spot, the ache still deep. The injury was a serious one; that he could not forget. It spanned from his chest, an inch beneath his collarbone, straight through his body to his back, just to the right of his shoulder blade. He couldn’t yet bend enough to reach the healing puncture on his back, but he’d seen it in the mirror. It wasn’t nearly as ugly as the entrance wound. The arrow hadn’t had a chance to jostle around as much as Irwin pushed it through layers of bone and muscle, he supposed.

The memory of pain was worse than what he felt now. He tried not to dwell on how close he had been to death, but the realization sometimes came to him in the still of the night, and kept him awake for hours. He’d nearly died, and the hope of the world with him. He’d nearly died, and left behind everyone he cared about.

“Armin?” He felt his name in his ear, and started. The bath was a quarter full already, and he felt Irwin leaning close behind him.

“Sorry,” he said, “I…”

“No apologies needed,” Irwin said, not to patronize, but he sounded worried. Before Armin could try to reassure him, the warrior was stepping away, going to a cabinet on the side of the room. Inside the door were shelves lined with bottles and vials—oils and soaps, bath salts and herbs, and incenses. Irwin perused the assortment as seriously as he might inspect a rack of newly smithed weaponry. Armin watched as he plucked several of the glass containers from their perches, and turned back to the increasingly full bath with his selections.

Steam had begun to fill the room, fogging the mirror above the basin. Irwin kicked the door shut as he passed it, then made his way over to the pump. In turns, he uncorked each bottle and jar, dripping tinctures and dashing powders into the stream, which spread the solutions evenly. Suds began to form, a gentle, clean scent wafting up with the clouds of vapor. Armin breathed it all in, letting the warmth fill him, soothe him. Without a second thought, he reached down and pulled up the hem of his shirt, casting the fabric aside. The motion made his wound twinge, and he couldn’t wait to submerge it, to let the salt Irwin sprinkled into the bathwater soak into the wound and into his skin, drawing out all of his aches.

Irwin made a noise of amusement at his impatience, but did nothing to stop him as he shed his smallclothes and stepped down into the near-scalding water. Any hotter and it would have been unpleasant, but Armin liked his bathwater close to boiling. All the same, he hissed as he sank down into it, though it was more from relief than discomfort. He perched on the edge of the bench for a moment, then slipped down further, sinking underneath the suds until he sat on the very bottom of the tub. A moment passed, then he rose, emerging from the depths to perch again on the marble seat.

“Satisfied?” Irwin asked him as he leaned back against the edge.

“Very,” Armin answered, pushing slick hair back out of his closed eyes. Irwin breathed a laugh, and then Armin heard the pump click, and the slosh of water ceased a moment later. He released the spell that pulled at the lever, and listened to the softer sounds of Irwin undressing. The warrior was quick about it—a few moments later, Armin felt rather than heard Irwin submerging himself beside him.

The bath was large enough to fit several people, though Armin failed to see the necessity of that. It was nice, even so. Very nice, he thought as he shifted toward his lover, leaning back against Irwin’s broad chest without opening his eyes. He felt lips, and the tip of Irwin’s nose pressing against the back of his head, and a thickly muscled arm wrapping around him from the right.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. Tension that Armin hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying—far more than he would have acknowledged—melted out of him, soaked up by the water. The heat seeped deeper and deeper into his muscles, his joints and bones. He sighed and slid down further, until he was submerged up to his mouth. His head began to feel light and heavy all at once—free, but weighted, and he could feel sleep encroaching. With Irwin there, he knew he could fall asleep without fear of drowning, though he was relatively certain he would have woken up if he slipped under the water.

“Armin,” he heard his name again, and made some noise in response. Behind him, Irwin’s chest expanded, though he couldn’t tell if it was a laugh or a sigh. “I trust you’re feeling more relaxed now?”

“Mmhm,” Armin answered, then grumbled in protest as Irwin shifted. He sat up, opening his eyes just in time to see Irwin reach for a thick yellow sponge, and a bottle of what must have been soap.

“Shall I wash your back?” he asked, and Armin nodded, leaning forward, sitting sideways on the bench and pulling his knees up to his chin. The sponge moved in slow circles starting from his uninjured shoulder, and moving down his spine. The scent of vanilla reached his nose, warm and subtle, an aroma he knew Irwin favored on him. Irwin circled from his lower back up to his neck, combing the hair away to better wash his nape. As the sponge traveled to his wound, he suppressed a shudder, but he must have reacted in some other way because Irwin seemed to sense the pain he’d caused, however mild.

The sponge was dropped into the water, and then Irwin’s thumb was tracing over the slanted, red line on his back. An apology was on his lips as they gingerly rested against the same spot. _Without healing, it will probably scar_ , Historia had said. He might not have minded the one on his back, but the one on his shoulder would be puckered and ugly. All the same, he knew Irwin would kiss him there, just as he kissed where the arrowhead had emerged.

Pain flickered again, and he realized he was touching that spot above his heart—it really had been so very close. He had just dismounted his horse, staff in hand as he readied a barrier spell. It had been a sudden shift in stance that had saved him. Just a routine movement, so practiced he hadn’t even needed to think, and just as he released the spell, the arrow had struck. In the time it took him to blink he’d avoided certain death, but it had been _so close_. This time, he couldn’t keep from shuddering.

“Does it still hurt that badly?” Irwin asked, sounding more concerned.

“I…no. Well, yes but…I was just thinking.”

When he didn’t elaborate, Irwin pulled him close again, resting his chin on Armin’s good shoulder. “Thinking, or remembering?” he asked.

Armin pressed a hand over his eyes, seeing the caravan, the dusty road. He could hear his mare screaming, hear Mikasa’s snarl as she drove her blade through the archer’s chest. And the arrow. He saw it protruding from his shoulder. He remembered staring at it, the shock, the disbelief he felt well before the pain registered. It was hardly the first time he’d been injured, and surely wouldn’t be the last, but it had most certainly been the most frightening. Before he was even able to speak again, he felt something was wrong about that arrow. The effect was instantaneous, and he recalled thinking that poisoning an arrow and then aiming for his heart was a bit like overkill. But he hadn’t been able to summon any mana, and that was what had scared him more than anything. Even injured, he could have still fought, could have healed himself if he’d had his magic.

“I’m glad I’m not dead,” Armin blurted, and the words came out so matter-of-fact that they started a laugh out of the warrior.

“As am I,” Irwin said, sobering as he added, “If I lost you—,”

“Don’t,” Armin interjected softly, turning to face the older man, imploring, “Don’t talk about that now. Just…I’m here. We’re both still here. That’s what matters.”

Reaching up to trace the curve of Armin’s jaw with a finger, Irwin nodded, then leaned in to kiss the younger man. Armin could tell that he’d meant for it to be quick, chaste, but he decided he would be having none of that. It came as no surprise at all that Irwin immediately gave in to his whim and deepened the kiss, responding to the way the mage’s arms locked around his neck, holding him close. “Do nothing,” he murmured sarcastically when Armin allowed him to pull back to breath.

“Am I to be the passive lamb to your ravening blight-wolf, then?” Armin asked him with an arched brow, but he failed to maintain this imperiousness when Irwin ran his fingers down the length of the Inquisitor’s spine.

“Would a ravening blight-wolf be so concerned for your wellbeing?” Irwin asked, his treacherous fingers circling maddeningly around the knob of Armin’s tailbone.

Armin glared up at him, but shifted closer, near enough that he might as well have been in the warrior’s lap. “Fine. You’re worse than that. You’re a brooding mother hen,” he said, but the effect was lost yet again when Irwin’s hand slid lower and cupped one round buttock, and Armin sputtered.

“A hen, am I? Are you sure I’m not a…” and then Armin was in Irwin’s lap, feeling the older man’s very much awakened passion pressing into his thigh, “rooster?”

“A prick, more like,” Armin muttered, without any real heat, and Irwin laughed and pressed a kiss to his damp forehead.

“Your words wound me, love,” he said, running his mouth from forehead to nose to chin.

“I am being a bit grumpy, aren’t I?” Armin agreed apologetically, dragging his blunted nails gently down Irwin’s chest.

“I daresay Levi’s begun to rub off on you,” the older man said.

With a horrified gasp, Armin pulled back and glared at him, “And you say I’m being cruel!”

“Forgive me, my dear. That was a bit below the belt,” Irwin soothed. He made no attempt to hide his grin, though, not even when his free hand smoothed up Armin’s thigh. Gooseflesh raced up the Inquisitor’s arms in spite of the heat, and he shuddered, pressing closer to his lover.

“You are not subtle at all,” Armin said, allowing some affection to creep into his tone.

“Not when it comes to you, I suppose.” The hand still cupping his bottom gave a quick, deft squeeze, and Armin arched against the older man—which must have been his plan all along, because then Armin found himself trapped there, at the mercy of the warrior and his greedy hands. And Irwin wasted no time laying claim to his prisoner, pulling Armin tighter, until he could feel Irwin’s hot length pressed against his own. A whimper fell unwittingly from his lips as Irwin’s mouth found his throat, teeth nipping and tongue tracing the throbbing beat of his blood. All he could do was throw his arms back around the warrior’s neck and hold on for dear life.

In Irwin’s arms, the rest of the world simply ceased to exist. Always the same, but not in a bad way, not boring, never. He felt a hand in his hair, and then his head was being pulled back and Irwin’s mouth closed over his, tongue slick, annoyingly, wonderfully nimble. He knew it too, knew the effect he had, and as humble a man as he was in all other areas, his ability to leave Armin a mewling, quivering mess was something he was infuriatingly and unceasingly smug about. Worst of all, in the heat of the moment, Armin truly couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Please,” he gasped, his head—his whole body—unbearably hot, and certainly not because of the cooling bathwater.

Irwin kissed his chin, his jaw, then his temple, where he whispered, “Please what?”

“I…whatever you’re planning to do,” Armin said, his voice too thick, “Just don’t stop.” Like his exhaustion, his appetite, and his need to soak, he hadn’t realized how badly he’d been craving being held like this until it happened.

Expression softening as he eased back, Irwin said in near a whisper, “I won’t.” As if his thoughts again echoed Armin’s, he gathered the Inquisitor up and embraced him. For only a moment, Armin was surprised, but then he returned the gesture. Against his own heart he could feel Irwin’s beating, and they kept a rapid pace. He had missed this, and more the fool he for trying to go without, for pushing himself the way he had until he had no room for anything but sleep, eat, work, repeat.

“I love you.” He whispered the words before they had the chance to elude him, before Irwin flustered him past the point of being able to speak coherently.

“And I you,” Irwin said, his tone somehow soft and fierce all at once, and Armin felt crushed against him, his wound aching with the force of the warrior’s grip, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Then, before anything could be said about it they were rising together. Armin found himself exposed to the comparatively cool air outside of the bath, and he squeaked in alarm as Irwin stepped up onto the floor.

“You’ll slip!” he said, clutching his arms and legs more tightly around Irwin’s neck and midsection, but the warrior did not despite wet feet on the smooth floor. And both still dripping wet, he exited the bathroom, walking across Armin’s chamber to the bed where he deposited the flushed, shivering Inquisitor. “It’s freezing,” he muttered, “You could have let me grab a towel.”

“You’re a mage,” Irwin said, waving his hand in a poor imitation of the way Armin might to cast a simple spell. _Evil man,_ he thought as he repeated the motion—with proper finesse—and instantly they were both dry, though he doubted they’d stay clean for much longer. Another wave, and the fire jumped in the hearth, though in truth it wasn’t quite as cold in the room as he’d claimed. He then watched as Irwin strode across the room in his full naked glory, unmindful of the uncovered windows, though who might be able to see through them up here in the mountains he had no clue. A curious bird, perhaps.

Irwin knelt to retrieve something from a small bag resting by the chair he’d been sitting in when Armin woke. With suspiciously deft movements, he stood and turned on the spot, whatever he’d taken from the bag hidden behind his back.

“What do you have?” Armin asked with narrowed eyes, drawing his knees up to his chin and gripping the rumpled bedspread with slightly pruned fingers.

“Something you’ll like.”

“Something that will make our bath rather irrelevant, you mean.”

“That, too.” Irwin was smiling, just a slight upturn of his lips that would have been a broad, gloating grin on anybody else. Whatever he was up to, he was obviously quite pleased with himself. He reached the edge of the bed, and leaned forward, bracing on one hand as he brushed his lips along Armin’s bare shoulder. “Lay on your stomach,” he said, the words making something jump behind Armin’s navel.

With one last roll of his eyes, just in case Irwin wasn’t aware that he was completely unimpressed, Armin did as he’d been asked. He rolled onto his belly, propped up on his elbows until he felt Irwin’s large hand splayed against his back, applying gentle pressure until he lay flat. The calloused hand ran down his back, fingers tracing thrilling lines along his skin. A moment passed where the hand remained, the thumb roving back and forth in place. Then, something cold, three wet droplets between his shoulder blades that made his nerves jump.

“What is that?!” he yelped, the cold doubly unpleasant after the hot bath they’d shared.

“I probably should have warmed it first.”

“Do you think so?” Armin muttered, turning his head and tucking his hands up underneath it as another little shudder raced up his spine. Irwin murmured words to assuage him, and then his hand was on the move again, smoothing through the cool wetness and spreading it. Armin was relieved to find it warmed quickly enough, and the tingle of wet skin against the air was sort of pleasant with Irwin’s hand interceding. And as the palm slid along his skin, a soft scent began to fill the air, one he couldn’t identify but was pleasant nonetheless. He made a note to find out what the oil was made of later, but for now he knew he wouldn’t easily get any answers. Irwin was focused; when the oil was sufficiently and evenly distributed across Armin’s back, he added his other hand, and began to apply pressure.

Armin sighed, the breath escaping him unbidden as Irwin’s fingers found the remaining knots of tension Armin hadn’t even known of, and soothed them away. The ache in his shoulder persisted, but it was bearable, inconsequential. The oil and hands warmed him again, warmer even than he’d been in the bath. The warmth spread into his chest, his belly, pooling in his hips, reawakening his arousal. Irwin certainly knew what he was doing—Armin felt relaxed enough that there was no urgency to the warmth, no need to rush things. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so comfortable. Certainly not since before the explosion that had ultimately resulted in the glowing mark on his hand.

“When this is over,” he began, speaking before the thought was fully formed, “When the war is over, I want to go where no one will find us this time.”

“I’ll find us the most remote, most secluded hut on the farthest mountain imaginable,” Irwin promised.

“Mmm,” Armin hummed. “Can we have chickens? And goats?”

“Anything you like. Perhaps even ducks, if you’re well behaved.” Armin giggled at that, the sound startling him. He hadn’t laughed very much in quite a while, either.

“I don’t know how much longer I can behave with you fondling me,” he huffed, amusement making his words come out shaky.

“Oh, I haven’t yet begun to fondle,” Irwin said, and as if to prove his point, his oil-slick hands slid further down, both fully cupping Armin’s ass in a calloused grip. Armin peeped, his head jerking up as he was squeezed again, Irwin’s thumbs tracing the seam between his cheeks.

Some snarky comment came bubbling up his throat, but instead of voicing it, Armin pushed his hips up into his lover’s hands. An embarrassingly needy noise slipped between teeth he didn’t remember clenching, and he shivered again when he heard Irwin’s answering chuckle. “What was that, Your Worship?”

Armin let his head drop back to the bed, shaking as those thumbs pressed inward, the fingers clutching harder. “Don’t call me that,” he whined.

“Or what, you’ll have me tossed in the dungeons?”

“No, I’ll make you my court jester. You can dance about the great hall in a jangly suit for my amusement.”

“How horrifying,” Irwin said dryly. Armin turned his to glare at him, just in time to watch a long, slender finger delve into the cleft of his ass. Another gasp tore from his lips, and he gripped the blanket beneath him, dropping his forehead onto his hands. Irwin’s finger teased him, spreading him with his hands to ease his exploration. One hand retreated for a moment, and Armin whimpered when he felt another cool drop of oil just below his tailbone. The cold felt more intense this time, sending a violent shiver up his spine as Irwin collected the oil on his fingertips. Irwin’s voice dropped low when next he spoke, “I don’t take well to being threatened, you know.”

“If you tell me I need to be punished, I’ll scream,” Armin said, jaw creaking; it was clenched so hard he thought his teeth might crack. Instead of answering, Irwin thrust his waiting finger inward, then withdrew just as quickly, like the gasp that tore from Armin’s lips. The suddenness of it stung just a little, but he whined for more, and Irwin readily complied, albeit more slowly. One finger became two this time, prodding and prying, pushing forward with gentle ease. Armin pushed his forehead into the mattress, his whole body tensed as he waited for the adviser to quit his stretching and find what he was looking for.

Armin had missed this. Not just the carnal aspect of being with Irwin, but just _being_ with him. They had had a home, before. Before Armin’s curiosity got the better of him and he’d climbed the mountain to see why so many people had gathered at Haven. It had been an accident, a mistake for him to stray so far from home that day. Their little cabin hadn’t been much, but they could have made something of it. They’d survived the winter there, hiding from both the mages and templars. He liked to pretend sometimes that if he’d ignored the droves of people climbing the mountain pass, somebody else would have this glowing scar on their hand. Somebody else would be saving the world now, helping all the people he’d helped—but he knew that wasn’t true.

Nobody else would have stumbled upon the awful ritual he’d interrupted. And now he and Irwin were tangled up in all of this, instead of cozy in their cabin. _At least we’re still together_ , he thought. At least he hadn’t been killed like so many others.

All thought fled his mind when Irwin’s fingers found the spot inside him that made the world go white. He thought he might have cried out, but the sound was lost in the sheets. His fingers tightened their grip on the cloth, and he felt Irwin’s hand on his back, keeping him from pushing his hips up for more. “Patience,” he said softly. Armin had infinite patience, but not for this. Not when something was just for them for once, instead of for everyone.

“I’ve been patient long enough,” he grumbled. “All I do is—,” he gasps here as Irwin’s fingers separate, stretching him wide, “ _be patient_.”

“I know,” Irwin said, a touch of sympathy in his tone, “You do so much and expect nothing in return.” Armin didn’t see why he would; the only thing he ever asked of people was their promise to assist him, and only if they could. But it was hard to think about when Irwin’s fingers suddenly left him, empty and wanting for more.

An ache filled him, a need; he needed confirmation, that he was alive, that Irwin loved him. There were so many people who would lay down their lives for him, but that was thought was too much, too overwhelming right now. He needed to be distracted. He needed to just be himself, be _Armin_. There were so few people who remembered that he was just a person.

“Wait,” he breathed as Irwin clasped his leg. The Inquisitor rolled onto his back, shifting up, reaching to touch the warrior’s face.

“What’s wrong?” Irwin asked, his mouth curling with concern, a large, calloused hand tucking a lock of yellow hair back behind Armin’s ear.

Armin traced a faint scar on the older man’s chin, before leaning up and kissing the same spot. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing is wrong.” For the moment, anyway. Irwin gave him the faintest of smiles, cupping the back of Armin’s neck as he bent down and pressed their mouths together.

The sheets felt sticky against his back, but it didn’t bother him. Neither did the remnant of pain in his shoulder. He would heal, and keep fighting. The pain didn’t matter as much as the man looming over him, pushing him down into the mattress. Irwin was so heavy, so solid, his grip was sure but gentle. His fingers skittered over the wound on Armin’s shoulder, so light he barely felt a thing but for the warm tingle that raced across his skin. It pooled in his chest and hips, and he pulled Irwin down close, feeling the warrior’s own heat, his heart beating against his ribs.

“You are my whole heart,” Irwin said to him, whispering it into Armin’s hair before sweeping it back from his forehead. He nudged between Armin’s thighs, one hand on his hip. Armin could feel his cock pressed against the soft skin between his legs. He shifted, rolled his hips up, heard his lover hiss, and pulled him closer.

“Prove it,” Armin said. He felt the push against his entrance, the stretch that burned after so many weeks, but it was a good ache. He encouraged the warrior with a sigh, and another roll of his hips, throwing his arms around Irwin’s shoulders as the man groaned. Then the warrior thrust forward all at once; the motion shook the bed, made the headboard clunk against the wall, but it wasn’t as loud as Armin’s yelp of delight. His buttoned-up, restrained adviser fell to pieces just like that. He always did, unreserved, panting and growling into Armin’s neck as he sheathed himself completely, the mage tight around him, his heat all-consuming.

Armin whined when Irwin didn’t keep moving, just holding him there instead, breath hot against his ear. Even when Armin bucked, urging the man on impatiently, he only huffed a soft laugh. He half-expected Irwin to tease him for it, say something about mages needing to show some self-control, but Irwin just stroked his hair and kissed his earlobe. When he did move, it was slow, not the earnest motion Armin had been expecting. But that was fine. This was perfect, the pleasure was a gradual build that crept up his spine, into his belly, through his own cock trapped between their bodies. It burned through his mind until he could think of nothing else, but there was nothing else that mattered.

Irwin pushed up on his hands, pinioning deeper, striking the spot that made Armin’s entire body quake. He was sure he made some sort of noise, maybe cried Irwin’s name, but he couldn’t hear over the blood roaring in his ears and the way his bed creaked. Thank the Maker for Ferelden craftsmanship—a weaker bed might have buckled. And it was faster now, fast so that their bodies slapped together, slick, the heat between them humid. Their breath came faster, the pleasure sharper, until it crackled, and Armin clawed at him, rising to meet him over and over, until the heat built to its peak.

Something snapped inside him, like lighting blooming from his hand. His body arched as the pleasure cascaded, erupted. It spilled over his stomach, wet and sticky-hot. Inside of him, he felt Irwin pulse even as he kept pushing, kept moving. Now Armin could hear himself shouting, sobbing. It echoed off the walls, and he was grateful for the thick stone. Nobody could hear them here, though he was sure it was a mystery to no one what they were up to.

For a long while, once he’d gone quiet, his mind was a blissful blank. He felt Irwin whispering against his ear, but he couldn’t make sense of what he was saying. Perhaps he wasn’t saying anything, just murmuring nonsense in his own afterglow. He felt so hot, his heart fluttering, light and content inside his chest. He wanted to sleep, to curl up against Irwin’s chest and ignore the world for a while more—the hole in the sky, the magister-darkspawn that wanted him dead. Surely it would be alright to pretend for just a little while longer.

“We’ll need another bath,” he said when his thoughts were slightly more coherent. His eyes were shut, and Irwin had rolled onto his side, still pressed against him.

“Not yet,” Irwin said, trailing a finger along the Inquisitor’s jaw. “You should get some more sleep.”

“I slept half the day,” Armin argued, ignoring that he was steadily drifting off already.

“More than you sleep in a week. Unless you’re wounded and poisoned, of course.” Armin heard the gentle reproach in his voice, and opened his eyes, propping himself up on an elbow as his wound twinged so he could look down at the warrior.

“You know it might happen again,” he said softly, gently, but still Irwin’s face grew grave.

“I know.” He stared across the room, at something faraway, then added, “To either of us. To any of us.” Armin reached up, turned Irwin’s face toward his own.

“We’ll still win,” he said. “I’ll make sure of it.” Irwin smiled at him, that little, barely there grin. He ran his thumb along Armin’s cheek, and the mage smiled back. When the warrior pulled him down, he went, and he leaned into the kiss, ignoring the little knot of fear in the back of his mind. Because he _would_ win. They all would.

“I know,” Irwin said after, as he tucked Armin’s face into his neck. “I know we will.”


End file.
